I had to use olive oil in the end to get it off. The only one Leah had was infused with basil. So now the ring is sitting in gin again to try to get rid of the smell.

* * *

On Wednesday, Tom invites me out for a drink. He’s heading away for a few days and wants to see me first.

“All right… I know this is going to sound crazy.” He grins at me, once we’re sitting down with a glass of wine. “But just hear me out, OK?”

I nod. His enthusiasm is infectious, my disquiet from an earlier argument with Chris all but forgotten.

“Come to Vegas with me.”

“Vegas? When?”

“Tonight. I’m giving a speech at a conference but aside from that I’d be free.”

“Tonight?” I can’t go to Vegas. What would I tell Chris? But I think back to this afternoon, when I’d FaceTimed him from another anonymous coffee shop and he’d been in a foul mood. Swearing about someone he worked with and how “the fucking imbecile had messed shit up” and he had to go away for a few days to fix it. He’d been expecting me to calm him down, layer on the platitudes and sympathy like I normally did, but I just didn’t have the energy. He wouldn’t even know I’d gone anywhere. And I’d be using Leah’s passport, so no need to get mine from the safe back in Guildford.

To Tom I say, “I can’t go to Vegas tonight. I don’t have any stuff with me.”

“Buy it out there. The shopping is fantastic. All you need is your passport.”

“What about a visa?”

“ESTA. Online application, instant acceptance. Unless you’ve committed a crime you should tell me about?”

Well, yes actually—I kind of killed someone. My mind fills with an image of her. Blood pooling on the deck. But I shake it away and force a smile instead. Do they have retinal scanners at the airport? Our faces are the same, but a retinal scan would tell us apart as if we were strangers. I can’t risk it.

He is bouncing up and down in his seat like an excited child, willing me to say yes. “Please, please, please. I’ll teach you to play blackjack…”

“You’ll teach me?” I raise an eyebrow. I helped finance my masters program dealing cards in a seedy casino just off the Brighton seafront. Although of course that was me, Megan and not me, Leah.

We get another drink while I think about it. In the end, the clincher is a message from Chris to Leah. I’ve been keeping him at arm’s length but he’s obviously had enough of Leah’s rejections: We need to talk. I’m coming over.

No, you’re not, I think. “Let’s do it!” I tell Tom, who jumps up and does a funny little dance in celebration. “Now,” I add. He doesn’t need persuading and soon we’re in a taxi, speeding to Leah’s house. I run inside to grab her passport, then throw myself back into the cab, giggling as we pull away just as Chris’s car turns on to the street.